


Let the Earth Leave You For an Hour

by Hecate



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-16 21:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecate/pseuds/Hecate
Summary: There's a cut across his leg where the metal of the banged-up suit cut in, a rib that could be bruised but might be broken, a burn across his hand. A man standing by the window.





	Let the Earth Leave You For an Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Позволь Земле вращаться без тебя](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15523020) by [fandom RDJ_and_Stark 2018 (fandom_Robert_Downey_Jr_2017)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Robert_Downey_Jr_2017/pseuds/fandom%20RDJ_and_Stark%202018), [remontada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remontada/pseuds/remontada)



Tony comes home to an empty house. He always does, these days. Pepper is gone, her absence as solid as the walls of the building that was meant to be his home. And he knows that she won't return this time, hopes she won't because she deserves better than him, she deserves somebody who doesn't goad death and destruction every single day. He doesn't want her to wait for a voice on the phone telling her he died because the suit didn't hold up, because he was reckless, because he wasn't good enough. He wants her to be _happy_.

Vision had never been here, not in this house. His home was the compound and that is where he stays even now, a being as strange as a ghost haunting the place. And Tony tells himself that this is okay, that it's good, because Vision sounds like JARVIS, and sometimes, when he speaks, Tony stops, and he hopes, and then he sees Vision and he still isn't used to that.

And Rhodey... Rhodey is at the Avengers Compound, is at the hospital, is at his own home somewhere away from the mess Tony calls his life. He calls, of course he does, and he comes by as often as he can, but he doesn't stay. Can't stay, really, and Tony won't ever blame him for that.

So Tony comes back to an empty house, after meetings and after missions, after glamorous events he doesn't want to go to. He comes back, and he tries to enjoy the silence and space he is surrounded with. And fails. 

And then there are the meetings with Ross, there are the discussions about Rogers and the others with people who want to hunt them down, there are hearings about the rights of Inhumans, politicians talking and talking and talking. It's exhausting, and he never wanted to do all of this on his own, never planned to. But it's what he has to do now. 

Everything is easier when he returns from a mission injured. The pain and the practicalities of taking care of his wounds are faithful companions then, and they help to fill up some of the days and nights. 

Today is an easy day. He stumbles out of the suit, listens as Friday details the damage the city and the suit took. Thinks, it could be worse. It always could be worse. And Tony tells himself not to think about that, tells himself to deal with the present and to keep his mind and hands off the future. Just for now, just for a bit.

There's a cut across his leg where the metal of the banged-up suit cut in, a rib that could be bruised but might be broken, a burn across his hand. A man standing by the window.

“Huh,” Tony says.

Fury watches him.

“This feels a bit like a flashback. You, me, a dark room. Are you gonna bitch about a press conference again?”

Fury raises an eyebrow. “Do I have to?”

Tony shrugs. “No secret identity to reveal these days. I'm an open book.”

A chuckle, a few steps, and Fury is standing in front of him, putting a hand against Tony's shoulder, steady and real. “You have always been.”

“I resent that,” Tony replies, and he tells himself not to lean against the touch, not to let Fury take his weight. He can stand on his own. “I'm a man shrouded in mystery.”

“You're a man shrouded in bloody clothes. We should take care of that.”

Tony follows when Fury leads him to the couch. There are bandages spread out there, medical wipes and antiseptic cream. As if Fury knew what to expect. Tony isn't even surprised.

“We’re gonna ruin the couch,” he tells him.

“I'm sure it's not the first time you’ve had to buy a new one,” Fury says.

“True. But I like this one. Let me get under the shower first.” A smirk, as dirty as he can make it, and Tony goes on. “You can even watch, make sure I don't drown.”

Fury looks at him, unimpressed. “Stark, take your damn shower.”

Tony bows, hisses at the flare of pain that hits his ribs. “Back in a minute.” Another smirk. “If not, you better come and rescue me, Mr. Plissken.”

Fury doesn't even bother with a reply.

Tony remains alone in the shower, and he imagines another body with him under the spray, a solid presence against his back, hands against his hips. An image he got stuck on during the last few weeks, an useless idea on repeat that he can't let go of at times. Another body to hold him up, just for a while, just to prove that he isn't alone in all of this.

But then, tonight he isn't.

He returns to the living room in shorts and a shirt, stops when Fury looks at him. For a moment, he feels strangely insecure, the feeling unfamiliar. Then, he twirls, arms spread out, swallowing another hiss. “All there for the doctoring,” he calls out, and saunters over to Fury, plopping down on the couch.

The cuts and the burns vanish under creams, ointments and bandages, Fury silent, his hands practised. It reminds Tony of Natasha, of the way she took care of injuries during a battle. But there is no place for her in his home anymore, so he holds still and breathes against the pressure and the pain and the memories, and he watches as Fury takes care of his hand and of his leg.

“Stand up,” Fury finally says.

Tony obeys.

Fury's hands are warm on Tony's body when he pushes Tony's shirt up, they are warm as he runs them over Tony's ribs, steady and sure, and it's strange how it doesn't hurt at all, stranger still that Tony doesn't quite want Fury to stop.

Then, Fury's hands stop following the lines of his ribs. One of them spreads over Tony's chest, over the scars that riddle his skin, the memory of the arc reactor edged into his body, both terrible and beautiful. The touch burns into him, all possibilities and promises, sharply hopeful. Tony yearns for more of it with a sudden clarity, hopes for hands that know of his past and present and don't shy away from it. And it's dumb, the ease with which a touch like this can make Tony fold, but fold he does, something inside of him giving way and giving in, and it tilts his body, and he's leaning into Fury.

Fury doesn't say anything.

Tony is glad, is relieved, is at that point where he can be still in his living room with bloody wipes thrown on his thousand-dollar rug, his ribs hurting in a familiar way, and an international spy covering his scars with a hand as if that would be enough to turn them into a secret. As if it was enough to make Tony whole again. And for that moment, for those seconds turning into minutes, the ghosts that crowd in on Tony step back into the shadows where he can't see them.

But it's his life and he is still a Stark, and Tony could never stop fixing things or blowing them up. “You missed out on some spectacular fights,” he says. “The Cap and his BFF against me. It was grand. Somebody lost an arm, my suit got fucked up, Cap got all dramatic and I spent some quality time in a Siberian bunker freezing my ass off.”

Fury looks at him. Tony trails off.

“Rogers knew,” he finally says because he hasn't told anyone else yet, because the truth had stuck to his insides, a knife no one bothered to pull out after the attack. “About what Barnes did.” He breathes. “Did you?”

Fury is silent for a long while. Then he says, “I knew they were murdered.”

And it hurts, and the shock of it surprises Tony. This isn't Rogers, this isn't his friend, this is the spy of spies, and Tony never expected his honesty. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I needed you focused. Because Iron Man on a quest to find out who killed his parents wouldn't have been in anybody's interest,” Fury says, and he sounds so calm, so calculating, and Tony can see it, can see himself focusing all his energy and time on hunting a murderer instead of hunting down his own weapons.

“SHIELD's interests,” he says, and he doesn't quite mean it.

Fury nods. “And yours.”

Tony almost protests, but Fury speaks again. “Would you have wanted that to be your mission? Iron Man's purpose? Finding one man to take revenge on instead of saving thousands?”

Tony looks away. Shakes his head.

“Did you know it was Barnes?” he asks.

“No,” Fury answers. “And I would have told you.”

Tony doesn't ask how he found out about Barnes, isn't even surprised that he did. He's Nick Fury, after all. And it's strange that Tony believes him, strange that he knows that Fury would have calculated and manipulated until the moment was just Fury's kind of right to tell him, and he can't hate him for it. So he says "Okay," as if it was, and maybe it is, maybe it could be, or maybe he's just too tired to understand what he feels.

Then he says, “I never thanked you for saving my life.”

"No, you didn't," Fury replies, and Tony thinks of sitting with him in another house, talking about his father, thinks that Fury might have believed in him back then. Wonders if he still believes in Tony now, after Ultron, after the Accords, after the Avengers broke apart. Tony wouldn't.

"Thanks," Tony says.

Fury raises an eyebrow. "You're welcome."

He gets up then, looks down at Tony. "Try to stay in one piece. I don't have time to stitch you up all the time."

Tony smiles, quick and sharp. "Such a disappointment."

"I'm sure you’re able to deal with it," Fury counters, stepping away from him, picking up his coat.

He's going to leave, Tony realizes, and he should have expected it. Fury is still pretending to be dead, after all; he is still laying low, and that is certainly easier if he's far away from Tony. But then, most things seem to be easier for people when they're not around Tony.

“Nick?” he says, and for a few seconds he doesn't even try to hide the relief when Fury turns around instead of walking away. “I really wanted this to work out,” he goes on, and means Iron Man, means the Avengers, means everything he messed up in the last few years.

Fury nods, and there is a bend to the edges of his mouth, something sharp in his eyes. “You might not see it now, Stark, but you aren't doing as badly as you think you are.”

Then he turns away from Tony, he turns away, and Tony thinks of Pepper, thinks of Natasha and Bruce. Thinks of Rogers. And the memories are sharp, shards of feelings; friendships and connections splintered into their painful parts.

And he's so tired.

Maybe that makes him that tiny bit braver.

“It's pretty late,” he says, and it's such an inane statement, awkward, and he thinks his PR team would be ashamed of him. They taught him better, after all.

Still, it stops Fury by the door.

There is a curious tilt in the way Fury cocks his head, a question Tony is supposed to answer. Tony shrugs.

“I got space. Lots of it, actually,” he tells him.

“A whole building even,” Fury says, and Tony can't tell if he's amused or unimpressed.

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “Wasn't meant for me alone.” He puts on another smile, like a suit made of the finest fabric, like a suit made of iron and fear and guilt. “I got beer,” he says, casual and easy, and he thinks of making another offer, something quite different. But he doesn't, puts the idea away for another day or another night.

A snort, this one easy to read. “Well, if you’ve got beer...”

Fury stays.


End file.
